


Sophistry

by Rotpeach



Series: Goretober 2016 [5]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amputation, Goretober 2016, Other, Power Tools, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You can't believe you used to think that it couldn't get worse than knives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for goretober day 17 prompt, "power tools"
> 
> also the direct sequel to day 4 "amputation"

When he brings you back down to the basement, you start to cry.

You haven’t cried like this since the first day when it all still seemed like a nightmare and you thought you’d wake up in your bed at home and everything would be okay.

But now, as you stare down at the bloodied stump of shredded flesh and muscle above where your ankle had been, you know better.

“You know,” Strade says, “I don’t like holding grudges. I’d rather forgive you for trying to run away.” He sets you down on the floor and you scramble away from him until your back hits the wall. The pole you’d been tied to stands at the other end of the room just as you left it—loose ropes and dried blood circling the base. You look at the basement steps, trying to figure out if you could limp back up them later and try to find a phone.

Strade blocks your view and you reluctantly look up, eyes moving over the circular saw in his hands. He gives you a patient smile and says, “Buddy, let’s make a deal.”

Your heart is pounding. You’re breaking out in a cold sweat. You don’t think you’re leaving this basement ever again.

“I wanna trust you, I really do. But you have to meet me halfway, alright? You have to help me out. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” He holds up the saw, as if you might’ve missed it. “You’re gonna hold still and I’m gonna cut your legs off, okay? I know I said I’d just take off the other foot, but let’s be honest, that’s not gonna stop you, is it?” He grins, eyes lighting up. “You’re a fighter. That’s how you lasted this long. And I like that. That’s why, if you can do this for me, I’ll let you live here.”

You stare up at him, at a loss for words. “Let you” live there? With him? That’s all you get out of all of this, that’s your consolation prize?

“Of course, you don’t have to,” Strade says, more softly, sounding wounded, “I’d hate to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He glares down at your mangled leg and presses his boot down on it, making you shriek. “I’d hate to live with someone who didn’t want to be here.”

“Stop, please stop,” you sputter, surprised when he actually does.

“So?” he presses. “Do you want to stay?”

_ “Do you want to live?” _ is what he really means.

“I….” You take a deep breath that turns into a sob. “I don’t want to die.”

Strade’s eyes narrow and he grins. You didn’t say yes or no, just that you didn’t want to die, but this must mean something different to him than it does you. “Alright,” he says, kneeling in front of you. “Then let’s get started.” The saw whirs to life and your blood runs cold.

He starts with your injured leg, tugging on it until you straighten it out all the way and bringing the saw down on the meat of your calf below your knee. Your scream echoes off of the walls and you writhe and try to fight, shuddering and gasping when the saw comes out of your leg.

Your relief is short-lived. He slams your head back against the wall and holds you up by the hair, scowling at your pained whimpers. “I told you to hold still, didn’t I?” he hisses, “That was part of the deal. I don’t have to do this for you, you know. I don’t have to be so patient. I could,” he pauses and slides the inactive saw blade between your legs, pushing just hard enough so you can feel it against you, “really mess you up down here instead.”

You beg him not to, you stammer out something unintelligible even to your own ears as you try to defend yourself. You swear you didn’t mean to move. You swear you can do better.

“I know you can,” he coos, and you let out the breath you were holding when he moves the saw away. “It’s hard to hold still, right? I get it. I won’t punish you for that.” To your surprise, he stands up and leaves you—shaking and crying and bleeding on the floor from a gash in your leg—and starts looking for something on the table against the wall. “You’re being such a good sport,” he says. “If you’re meeting me halfway, I should do the same, right? Let me help you out.”

He turns around with a cheerful smile, brandishing something new and your eyes widen. You’re not sure what a nail gun has to do with “helping you out.”

“Here,” he says, “I’ll make sure you can’t move too much.”

Your begging begins anew the moment he starts moving, pleading for mercy at his first step and to listen to you at his second. By the time he’s within arm’s reach, you’re nearly screaming, tears streaming down your face, but he hums to himself like he doesn’t notice. This time, he grabs your wrist and pulls it out away from your body.

“Please don’t,” you whimper, feeling the tip of the nail gun press into your palm, “Please. I-I’ll try again, I won’t move this time, j-just  _ don’t— _ !”

He squeezes the trigger and you scream. The silver nail pierces your flesh and pins your hand to the floor with a burst of blood that splatters across Strade’s smiling face. “There,” he says, “much better. Now for the other one.”

You don’t have nearly as much time to agonize over it the second time. He moves quickly, pinning your writhing body with his legs and leaning over your outstretched arm to hold it still as he positions the nail gun. A wave of nausea hits you when it fires and you lay your head back on the floor, resigned to your fate.

You can’t believe you used to think that it couldn’t get worse than knives.

Strade sits up, perched on your chest, and admires his handiwork. “Ah. You can’t see it, but you’ve got this look on your face right now, and it’s just….” He chuckles. “Well. It’s making it a little hard to concentrate, but I’m doing my best, buddy, I really am. Let’s hurry up and finish this, alright? If you do really well….” Tears fill your eyes again as he reaches over to pick up the circular saw and repositions himself to face away from you. “I’ll give you a little reward.”

The words don’t even register in your mind. You look at Strade’s back and you remember a day that feels like it happened a lifetime ago now, when you walked right past him. You saw his back that day, too, saw the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled up as he slouched over the bar and nursed an amber-colored drink, and you didn’t give him a second thought until he came over to say hello. He was kind and he was patient and he slung an arm over your shoulder and smiled at you.

You thought, “This is exactly what I need right now,” and you think back on this memory with nothing but regret.

You hear the buzz of the saw in the empty air for a few moments before Strade brings it back down on the first wound he made. You feel the warm spray of blood, feel the saw push harder against tense muscle and bone, feel flesh tearing and ripping and being pulled apart.

You let yourself cry. You let yourself scream and shiver and curse his name, even though it doesn’t make a difference. Strade tells you you’re doing so good, you’re taking it so well, you’re really turning him on. He doesn’t even turn the saw off when he finishes with one leg, sliding straight into it and slicing through your other, untouched calf. You hear your skin pulling and tearing and feel your leg tugged further away by every rotation of the saw blade.

Finally, it stops. The room falls silent when the saw goes still, and Strade sets it down somewhere nearby. “Guess what?” he asks excitedly, looking back over his shoulder at you, “You’re all done! You did it!”

You lie motionless, breathing labored and vision hazy. You don’t feel any traces of satisfaction or happiness. You just feel empty.

Strade quickly moves off of you and goes back to the table, taking away the saw gummed up with your blood and flesh. He returns with a rag soaked with disinfectant and a roll of bandages, smiling above you. “I’m pretty sure this is going to hurt, too,” he says, “So I’ll take out the nails last.” You don’t argue. You don’t even whimper. Your silence doesn’t dampen his spirits. He puts a hand on your face and pats your cheek. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna let you die.”

You look at him, at his smile and at the excitement in his eyes, at the washrag in his hand steadily approaching what’s left of your profusely bleeding legs.

_ “I don’t want to die,” _ you’d said.

Again, you’re filled with regret. 


End file.
